This is my rifle, this is my gun......

This is my rifle, this is my gun, this is for shooting, this is for fun….

The age old mantra still runs through my head. Along with an image of some clot marching up and down the barracks, clutching his balls with one hand, and holding his rifle above his head, shouting the stupid rhyme…. Calling your beloved rifle a gun was not a good idea.

The first rifle I was issued with was the R1, the South African version of the Belgian FN. The design was dated, with a crappy stock, a little carrying handle on the top, 7.62mm calibre, 20 round magazine… and lots of little corners where minute bits of dust could collect.

Lesson one was that this was your wife. It NEVER left your side. You slept with it in your sleeping bag, you carried it to breakfast, you had it next to you when you did your washing. And when you really had to put it somewhere, the moving parts were locked in your trommel, and the big bits were locked in your “kas”. And beware the poor sod who forgot to lock it all away. He’d shit bricks for a day or two….

We carried this piece of shit around for more than a month before we actually took it to the shooting range. They made us crawl through mud, just so that we could clean it for them again, we had to take it apart on demand, just so that someone could smack you on the top of your head and make you run for the boundary fence again when the bloody mouse wouldn’t fit in quickly enough… and it never does when you’re in a hurry.

Finally the big day came and we tumbled out of the Bedfords at the shooting range. And then lying down at the 100 metre mark, switch it S for single shot (R for Afrikaans results in unpleasant behavior by the instructors), aiming for the target. Squeeze the trigger slowly, like you’ve been taught… and BANG! Fuck me, the bloody thing worked!!!! I was so convinced they’d given me a piece of shit, it surprised the hell out of me when it actually fired. My head popped up to see where the shot went, only to get a swipe on the top of my doiby for being a stupid cunt and not concentrating….

Sept 1984 - Bossiespruit

Fokkofommiestalleentreeaanjulleheteenminuutdaagatjy! That was probably the first instruction we got at Bossiespruit. Loosely translated it meant that you had to run from the bungalow (barracks) around the stables where the Shetland ponies were kept, back to the bungalow, and form up. In less than one minute. Please.

By the second day, all the instructor had to do was point. And we’d run. Usually between twenty and thirty times. In the three months I was there, we never ever made it in under a minute. We did it in less than one minute one second, but never under a minute.

Most of the Fokkofommiestalleentreeaanjulleheteenminuutdaagatjy!style of running was done early in the morning, before breakfast, but after inspection. The Corporal of Echo Troop (can’t remember his name, but he wasn’t quite as psychopathic as the one Golf had), would come to the door, one of us would shout “kaserne, kaserne, aandag!”, and we’d all stand to attention while he looked at us balefully. The bungalows were divided into cubicles, with a passage down the middle. I was in the first cubicle, right in front. “Die plek is kak! Tree aan!” That was it. Every morning. He’d walk to the front entrance, tell us it looked like shit – and then we’d shit bricks for the rest of the day. He never made it past the 2nd cubicle. In fact some of the lucky shits in the back didn’t even make their beds in the morning. They knew he wouldn’t get that far…

Bossiespruit was legendary in the Engineering corps was being the worst place to be in the army. You tell people you were at Bossies, and you received real looks of sympathy. Coupled with hysterical laughter… The bungalows were crappy pre-fabricated units, the showers were cold, and it was far away from everything. It pressure was definitely a step up from basics. No walking was allowed. You had to run to the mess (15m away). You ran to the washing line to hang your washing, you ran to the pub in the evenings for your regulatory two beers, you ran to the parade ground, you ran around the fucking ponies….. I still hate running.

Bossiespruit was a training camp just outside of Kroonstad, and in our time they held the JL’s (Junior Leadership) training and selection there. I think we lost five guys in our bungalow the first week we were there. Not that you could volunteer to give up. Anybody that said anything about not wanting to do this anymore got smacked so hard on the doiby they’d see stars. (The doiby is the inside plastic bit of your metal helmet (Korea War era) that you wore while you were doing training. It had to be kept polished. Which was better than the marines in Saldhana – they had to square off their toothpaste tubes.

In amongst all the training was the guard duty, some of which was included the ammunition dump on top of the hill. It was horrible in winter. Two hours on, four hours off. You could not get any sleep. The cold winter wind would cut through everything, and even the World War II era “greatcoats, warm” didn’t help that much.

The photo above is of the bungalows we lived in...

Careful who you wrestle with

When I was stationed in Bethlehem (not the one with the three wise men and a virgin), the army had a farm which was used for training (bridge building, mine warfare, explosives etc). It was also a wildlife sanctuary. One of the animals in the camp was an orphaned wildebeest. This one was quite young, about waist high to an adult, and just starting to grow horns.

Every time we came to the farm, my corporal would go look for the wildebeest and play with him. Play consisted of grabbing it by the horns, and giving it a shake. The young wildebeest loved this, and immediately try to head butt him. The corporal (I think his name was Charles Bester) was a strapping young lad, and he’d hold the animals by the horns and play with him.

We went away for three months, I think we went to the townships. When we came back, the first thing corporal did was to look up his mate and give him a shake. Big mistake. In three months the wildebeest must have put on a 100 kilos, and promptly had the man pushed up against the truck, fighting for his life. We were laughing so hard there was no way we could help him. When it really looked like he was going to get seriously hurt a couple of guys gave him a hand up into the truck.

The problem was that every time we went back to the farm to give the troops training, the wildebeest was there, waiting for the corporal. He’s single him out. And insist on playing…

You're in the army now..

Who remembers army training? I remember the running.

The other things like sitting at 3 in the morning getting your bed perfectly square with starch and two clothes irons, using a toothbrush to clean your bedframe, or sitting outside in the freezing cold while you polish your boots so that bits of boot polish don’t fall on the floor – those are all small things.

Basics (or boot camp I think they call it in the US) was a doddle, there was always a slower fat person in the group. You always had a moment or two to rest before you had to run around the tree/bungalow/church/whatever they thought of next again. But then came the leadership courses. And the running started. Running from the bungalow to the showers. Running to the parade ground. Walking was not allowed. Except if you were on crutches. And even then you had to hobble fast. Ten clicks at sun up. With bridge parts. Ten clicks before lunch. With telephone poles. And truck tyres. And a quick ten clicks again at sundown to cool down, this time only with rifle and boots. And in between there’s the hour of physical training. To get fit.

Then we got fit. And the distances changed. Or the time got less. But the running never stopped. I did get fit. Somewhat strangely, I gained weight. But I suppose I was a skinny little runt…

It’s twenty year later. I still hate running. And no matter what people say, I don’t think I’ll ever change my mind.

July 1985 - Three wise men and a virgin

Officers course was behind us, and I’d had a quick weekend at home before I reported to 2 Field Engineer Regiment in Bethlehem (not the one with 3 wise men and a virgin). It was a cold winter’s day when I arrived at the main gate. The big sign over the main gate read in big blue and red letters “2 Field Eng Regiment. Home of the Super Sapper” This was the 80's, not 1914. Did people still fall for shit like that?

I parked my car ( I had a white Toyota Corolla in those days) at the visitors parking next to the officers mess just left of the main gate, asked for directions to the security area, where HQ was. The weak winter sun was slanting low over the parade ground. It was already getting cold, and there was a bite in the air. Funny the things you remember. Bethlehem was legendary as the coldest army camp in South Africa.

Wearing my step-outs (army jacket, tie, smart khaki pants and shiny brown shoes, and feeling very self conscious I walked up past the parade ground on the left, and went in through the gates to the security area. I was still firmly convinced that the army had fucked up big time in giving me any form of responsibility whatsoever. I found the Adjudant, a harried PF (Permanent Force) Captain who looked liked a scruffy accountant. His shirt was always hanging out. He told me who to go see in the mess about a room, and waved me into the Kommandant’s office. The Kommandant (the rank is equal to lieut-colonel) shook my hand, asked what sport I did, and whether I was going to the border (Border referred to the Namibia/Angola border, where our little war was) or staying with him. “Border” I said. He looked me up and down and said “Ok, now fuckoff out of my office”. That was my introduction to “Devil Eyes” De Villiers. He was a butcher in a previous life..

One of the cooks showed me to my room. Pretty average it was. A steel cupboard, painted military grey, a worn wooden desk, and a steel bed. But it was mine. I didn’t have to share it with 63 other other guys. The showers were down the hall. I unpacked, got out of my stepouts, and put on my browns, boots and mooi moois (roughly translated it means pretty things, but is used to describe the colourful engineer regiment belt, unit badges and rank that you wear when you're not on operations), and decided to go find the pub.

As I closed my door and started walking off, I bumped into a girl who came very unexpectedly round the corner. There are very few pretty girls in the army, so chances were high she was a civvie. This one was in high heels, tight jeans, had big tits and big hair. “Who are you?” she said. I explained.

She took a piece of paper out of her bra. “Well you not on my list, I’m looking for these guys” She showed me a list of seventeen names, handwritten and numbered neatly” She must have seen the question mark on my face… “One of these fuckers got me pregnant, and I’m trying to find out who it is” And off she trippled on her 6 inch high white high heels…

I never did get a photo of the girl (I heard there were a number of them floating around, mostly without the jeans - but with the high heels) - so I added one of the Bethlehem unit patches instead. Sorry.

Old men

Maybe it's an age thing. It's more than twenty years since I left the army. Yet it left an indelible impression. I'd been working my way through the internet, trying to find out what had happened to everyone... and then out of the blue I received an email from Danie.

We’d been in the army together more than twenty years ago. Danie had gone one step further, and had put together a CD of photographs, as well as a diary of his memories that had me laughing out loud for days while I read it.

Even more amazing, he has managed to find over 50 of us. Four of five have died, some live in New Zealand now (traitors), one or two live in the USA (capitalists). The rest? We’re all older, fatter , probably not wiser, and we all remember those days like they were yesterday.

So maybe the time has come for me to write down some of what I remember, before CRAFT disease gets the last of my memory. I’m not even going to try to get the stories in order. I’ll just write them as they filter up through the sludge…

Oh, and the pic has nothing to do with me. I lifted it off the net.